X-Men Iniquity: The Trials of Salem, Part 1 - Rise and Be
by iniquityfic
Summary: Salem Center has always been a quiet, peaceful place. But something is churning beneath the calm. Reports of painted circles are appearing in abandoned parts of the town. Inside and all around them are scorched, bloodied markings and the words: Rise and Be. X-Iniquity is an AU X-Men saga about the people behind the powers. A blend of Marvel and Real Life.
1. Chapter 1 - Parachutes

**An AU blend of Marvel and Real Life.**

* * *

Disclaimer - All Marvel owned by Disney...All Star Wars owned by Disney...Yep. Mind still blown.

Directions - Read, Review, Repeat; three times daily. ;)

* * *

He sat still, white-knuckled, eyes wide as he'd been for the majority of the ride to the airport. It wasn't fun to fly. His mom had insisted it was, as an off-the-cuff and irritated response to her eldest son's concerns of a wild, horrific accident, should they, indeed, board the plane. But Little Nik hadn't been heard. Too many younger siblings vying for attention, too little time to make his case with all the compiled evidence from the Bugs Bunny cartoon he'd watched just before their trip to the Moscow International Airport.

"Just…" She huffed, speaking to him with half-a-mind as the rest of it went to tracking the baby and juggling their tickets. "Just, close your eyes…go to sleep when we get on-board and then you-…ANTHONY!-…then…just-…Anthony you get back here!"

And that was it. And then an hour later they were making their way down the tight stretch of aisle-way to their seats near the back. Sleep? How could he sleep, knowing they didn't have the proper colorful parachute Bugs had magically pulled from wherever Bugs gets his stuff when the artists need him to have it? He didn't have the luxury of a magical, all-knowing sky artist. All Nik had for this tempting of death was a few comics and the wise words of his mother…to sleep. Nik gulped. That wasn't going to happen. Nope. He was going to watch the horror unfold the whole way down and then maybe even feel a little satisfied when he turned to look at his terror-stricken mother: "See?" He'd say as they plummeted to their inevitable doom. "Told ya."

Nik sat down in his seat. He buckled and readied his comics for their last perusal. And then was promptly moved by his mother out of their aisle and into the row of seats just ahead because Anthony was being loud and Elizabeth needed snacks and Thomas was a baby…

Nik obeyed without much fuss. What did it matter? They were all going down together anyway. It didn't matter the seat. He buckled up nearest the window and stared out at the rain-slicked runway. His dad had been reassigned to the Canadian Embassy which meant a stop-off in the U.S. for cheek pinches from all the relatives, then onward to pick out a place to live before dad joined them in a month or so. Poor guy. They'd all be crashing in a few hours and then he'd have to be the one to find a place to live. Nik imagined that would be very inconvenient for his father.

"Môže tu sedím?"

Nik looked up. Jaw dropped. It was huge. It was huge and there and staring at him. In all his vast nine years of life, Nik had never seen a local like the one currently attempting to be haltingly cordial.

"Ehm-" it said, "…sit?…"

The boy gulped. "Uuuuuuuuh," a glance back at his mother who was too busy fussing over his siblings. He shrugged. The giant nodded and took a seat…well…maybe more like a seat and a half. Hm. He smelled funny. Not bad…more like dirt, which to a nine year old was a fairly pleasant smell. Nik shrugged and went back to his comics, particularly the one where the Neutrinos had just entered from Dimension X to escape the rock guys. He felt the behemoth next to him shift a bit in search of the required seat belt and tried to keep his attention on the story. Ok, so The Neutrinos were cool 'cause they had a flying car…probably with better seatbelts than the plane and colorful parachutes that came out of nowhere, if they needed them. The Neutrinos met up with the Turtles and there was something in the alliance of those two different forces that really appealed to Nik. Alliances were sweet. He glanced out the corner of his eye to where the towering young man had settled into an uneasy pattern of shifting in the seat. The guy's cheek was sucked in and Nik could see the evidence of gnawing. Wow. That huge guy was nervous, too…

Suddenly, the plane jerked to a rolling start. The PA clicked on and the tiny cabin filled with static and the Russian Captain's welcome.

Big breath. Well. This was it. The beginning of the end. Nik looked back at his mom who was still so unaware, so like Wiley Coyote on that oversized 'X' of his own making. No colorful parachutes. At least from what he could guess by the cartoons, the whole thing went pretty quick. They might even get some hang-time if everyone flapped their arms really quick before the fall. Nik glanced to the young man again and…

He was stooped over, now. Attention set on something in his lap. No more biting. No more shifting. The plane sped for the inevitable ascent and the faster it went, the more involved the big guy became in whatever it was…

Holy whoa, Batman; they were in the air. Nik's breath caught in his chest as the reality of things hit. He looked out the window…bad idea. The world was drifting away. It was spinning too…sort of. Nik felt sick. Oh man, oh man.

"Look…"

The young guy's thick accented voice. Nik glanced, eyes wide again as his anxiety forced the stiffness of his body into a shake.

"Look." Said the man again.

And there was something so oddly comforting in that rumbling hum of a voice. He pointed at Nik's comic and then at the thing he'd slipped to Nik. A faded piece of paper…and a broken piece of…black chalk? It didn't make sense. But then Nik's mind eased into natural, boyish curiosity that helped release a bit of the former tension as he watched the man hover over his own paper and 'chalk'. He watched as a scene was drawn…a strange, vivid, familiar image…

What!? The Neutrino car!? And as it came to life on the big man's paper in mesmerizing strokes of sooty black, Nik recognized people in the flying car…a ninja turtle! He looked at his comic and it was a near exact replica of Leonardo. And then the girl Neutrino! And…his eyes widened as he watched the driver's likeness unfold. It was a picture of HIMSELF! Oh man. He was driving the Neutrino car! And he was smiling and-…they were driving high up in the air next to an airplane that had - a few more moments of the guy's chalk on the paper - the etching of his mom's grinning face in the window! Hey look at that, and it wasn't on fire! Tow lines were drawn from the plane to the Neutrino car and Nik couldn't help his bubble of laughter. The clouds were made and the earth, far below. The perspective was perfect and really not so scary once he wrapped his mind about the playful comic.

"And you," the guy said, indicating the chalk and the drawing. Nik understood. His smile doubled into a grin and down he dove to add a special parachute compartment at the back of the plane.

xXIXx

"…thank you," she said quietly with a squeeze of his arm as she and his little comrade departed the plane. The mother had been so concerned. Piotr had caught her worried glances and then the boy's obvious fears and so had reason to displace his own for a while to help as he could. But it was over. And reality greeted him out the small window: a rainy, dismal New York, New York, USA. Piotr hastened to grab his lone bag and catch a spot in line behind the small family…but they were gone…his small bit of comfort and familiarity. His gaze settled back out the windows as he passed by them to the front of the place. And then it was all strange, alien chaos past the jetway and into the terminal. He was quiet and suddenly feeling very self-conscious of the stares he was receiving. He tugged at his patched shirt, the one his mother had made him, and noticed it was nothing like the shirts the others were wearing. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek…

"Sir, keep moving, please." Piotr looked down to see a small man in a uniform ushering everyone out into the main lobby where they filed out with such confidence. Because everyone knew where they were going…

He obeyed the order and walked slowly through the airport, staring at the signs, all the colors and the people. So many people. So loud. Best to just look at the ground, which he did all the way to Customs. It was there, Piotr's heart leapt as he caught sight of the small family. The little boy caught sight of him and waved. His mother did the same and Piotr hurried to take his place in line, a few people behind them. At least there was some comfort in that faint familiarity. He watched the family as they stepped up for their turn. His smile widened as the mother waved again, indicating he join them on the other side. Relief. Instant relief…a parachute…

Right up until the customs officer began speaking so angrily with her. The man was waving papers at her. She was scared, searching her purse, shaking her head. He couldn't hear what was being said and wouldn't have understood anyway…but it was obvious there was a problem with her travel documents. More than that, there was a problem in the way these black-jacketed men were speaking to the nice woman. The kids were silent. Their eyes were wide. Piotr watched. The officer had pulled the mother aside and was bent over, forcefully sliding his hands down her sides…

She was beginning to cry. The kids were beginning to cry. And then it happened. Instinct. He couldn't help it. He pushed past the few people in front of him to get to the family and…

There were shouts and a body slamming into him from the side. He felt the hit…

More instincts…

The worst kind at the worst time…

The metal laced itself up his flesh in an instant. The officer who had attempted the tackle lay crumpled at his steeled feet. Silence. That sort of shocked calm before the inevitable storm as everyone around stared at the hulking mass of metal. and in the space of the stretched hush, Piotr caught the most awful of sights…the mother's horrified, terrified look…and little Nik's tears as the boy backed away in fear…

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

 **lychee - Thanks so much for your review! The first few chapters are going to be a bit of building to get into the characters and the story, but from there it spring-boards. I hope you like it!**


	2. Chapter 2 - Awakening

**An AU blend of Marvel and Real Life.**

* * *

Disclaimer - All Marvel owned by Disney...All Star Wars owned by Disney...Yep. Mind still blown.

Directions - Read, Review, Repeat; three times daily. ;)

* * *

Damn octopus kid inked in the pool, again.

And so there Logan had been for the past hour or so, correcting the pH, painstakingly cleaning the filtration system and barking away hopeful swimmers as he went about the job. The old veteran was a meticulous old worker who didn't mind hard work…unless said job could have been avoided by a simple trip to the nearby restroom. That so hard, kid? But then cue those little tears; the run away from mean ol' Grumpy Claws and in ta Red's forgiving arms. Logan wiped beads of fallen raindrops from his eyes as he glanced back to where she'd gone, 'round the house and off whispering soft assurances in the tiny guy's ear. A short, voiceless chuckle. Same exact thing the boy had pulled the other week…same results…

Clever li'l Ink Boy.

Logan took the next moment to cast that sharp brown gaze to the skies, rife with a churning chaos of flashing light in grey and then turned back to regard his work. Not fully done, but done enough for the day. He'd check on the chemical levels, again, tomorrow. And with that, Logan shouldered his tools and set out to clean up. By the time he'd made it to the back door of the Mansion, leading into the kitchen, his clothes were damp by a steady pelting of rain. In he went and through a small hall that served as the midway point between dirty outside and pristine kitchen. A side bathroom beckoned and in he stopped to clean his hands and shrug off the soaked flannel, revealing a faded grey tank top, beneath. He dabbed a hand towel at the wet of his bared arms before flinging the thing across a shoulder. Down his boots dropped off at the entryway and then in Logan strolled to the main part of the kitchen, past a tea-sipping 'Ro, past Kitty at the counter, buried beneath a stack of papers, and straight on to the small fridge nestled in one of the large cupboards. His fridge. It said so in plain words, scribbled on a note and taped to the front: MY FRIDGE. In it? His beer. Out one came. A thumb popped the top and it immediately went to his lips as Logan wordlessly moved on to his next conquest…

The other fridge.

And there Logan settled himself into an easy rhythm of riffling through ancient left-overs as a conversation continued between the two women. He half-listened, half-didn't as his quest for protein began.

"...it's all over the blogs," Kitty was saying. "You know, typically I'd be like 'thank you for the daily fix of crazy, unfiltered comment board trolls', but this whole Rise and Be thing is getting scary real. Like vive-la-revolution real. Like-"

"-eat 'my leftover llama food er starve' real?" And from the depths of the foraging, up a tupperware emerged of a certain baked kale recipe. Not an ounce of meat in sight. "...ya crazed herbivores," Logan muttered, setting the container back among the new section of the fridge he was currently re-dedicating to 'hazardous experiments'.

No response from the women. Not even the courtesy of an eye roll. Kitty rifled through the stack of printed comments in her hands, reading as she went,

"...no longer our truth caged in flesh...no more fear...live the awakening…"

Pause.

"Ok, so maybe a bit heavy on the dramatics," she admitted with a sigh, "But it's the context, ya know? I mean, these posts are all preaching the same stuff from the same source. Rise and Be," She went down each line, "Rise and Be, Rise and Be, Rise and Be. Hundreds of people! All regurgitating that Luncher guy's message like some crazy cultic mantra...or a Yo Gabba Gabba Sing-A-Long."

"Professor Erik Lehnsherr," Ororo corrected in a distracted murmur. She was staring at the soft tendrils of steam rising from her mug. Her lips pursed. She gently blew at the vapor, causing the lines to shift and move...and dance. A small figure, the visage of a ballerina, twirled for a split moment and then was gone.

Ororo smiled.

Neither Kitty nor Logan had caught the brief, beautiful sight, both wrapped up as they were in their own immediate worlds.

"Professor Erik Lehnsherr!" Kitty echoed, eyes lit with sudden excitement. "Yes! He's the connection! Ever since Professor Lehnsherr's book hit the shelves, it's been like The Mutant Manifesto. That whole idea defying the norms, pushing to the deepest potential, unrestrained ability exploration. People are eating it up, Ororo. Songs are being sung!...not very good ones, but ya know, 'A' for effort, right?" Pause. "I'll send you the link."

The snow-haired goddess's sweet, calming voice, "Child-"

"There's one with a dancing iguana that's oddly inspiring…"

"Kitty…"

The younger woman clamped her mouth shut a moment, just a moment, and then gave a deflated sigh, "Sorry. I just-..." She shook her head. Kitty was frustrated with herself, at her inability to organize and articulate the jumble of points in her mind. Lehnsherr. No More Fear. Rise and Be. Ignacio the Iguana. It all made sense!...to her. Something big was brewing in the mutant underground and it was all right there in her hands.

Or...

'The Great Lehnsherr Conspiracy' was the all-night BBC Sherlock binge finally catching up to her...

Kitty dropped her forehead to the piled papers with a groan.

"Sorry," she muttered again into the stack. She felt Ororo brush by, the brush of a touch on her shoulder as the institute's administrator passed on to the freezer, above Logan's head. Ororo withdrew two frozen packs of meat.

"Rib eye or top loin?"

"Yup," came Logan's response, which was clearest Logan-eese for 'both'.

'Both is good.'

The wild man then rose and turned to do what any right-headed person would do when presented with a similar situation; tempt fate and quietly (and not-so-subtly) extract himself from the immediate to make way for the potential of not having to cook. Sneakily get outta the woman's way and maybe, just maybe, there'd be a juicy home-cooked 'Ro meal on the way. As much as he grumbled, there wasn't much better out there than her loving touch on a dish.

Which is what she graciously offered, without snark, without word. A simple kindness for an old friend.

Logan was soon eased up beside Kitty, the beer tipped to his lips for a gulp. His gaze set on the magic of 'Ro's work as she deftly combined practical cooking skill with a bit of her 'extra' ability, evidenced in the whispered breeze that closed the pantry doors after she had removed what she needed.

"Logan?" Kitty lifted partially from her slump. "Am I crazy?"

Another swig from the bottle.

"Yup."

She nodded.

A pause.

"Maybe that's why this all makes sense. Because it's crazy. And I get it. I get what they're saying about just letting loose, you know? I mean, we've all lived so long hiding and being careful about...well, about who we are, you know?" She pressed a finger to the countertop and then through the countertop, swirling at the anomaly as one might circle the lip of a glass. "'Pay no attention to that mutant behind the curtain'. And then in walks Lehnsherr with his stuff about embracing the next evolution and it's extreme and totally dangerous 'cause do we really want some random 'Captain Boom' to rise and 'Be' his inner atomic bomb? Past all that though, it just feels like there's some truth in the message. What's so wrong with reaching for our best?"

She bit at her lower lip a moment, the thoughts a whirlwind in her tired mind.

Kitty glanced to Logan. "What do you think?"

Outside, the rain had picked up. A roar replaced the gentle pat-pat of droplets. And the sound was soon accompanied by the squeal of a faucet knob, the spray of cool water in the sink as 'Ro prepped in silence.

Silence.

Logan let it stretch as he let the bitter liquid sit on his tongue.

Over the past year, he'd watched with everyone else as Lehnsherr's writings made mutation a sudden scientific 'thing' in the public consciousness. Moreover, the words made mutation a 'thing' to mutants who had general tended not to associate with their inherent nature. Far better and easier to live a 'normal life' with the friends and family one had always known. _'It wasn't so much a denial of self,'_ Chuck had explained, _'but rather a choice not to be defined by genetics'_. So, mutants generally chose to live normal lives with the world none the wiser.

Until Lehnsherr.

Cue the message of self-oppression, the pro-mutant demonstrations and anti-mutant marches. Just people reacting. People 'feeling' and then reacting. He knew. He'd lived lifetimes to know. Though not one to ever shrug off the very real seriousness of a potential issue, it paid to take a step back...to step outside the immediate, where most people liked to live, and take a look to the past, maybe think about the future. Of course, the world didn't operate in those terms. It was all about those papers in Kitty's hands. People makin' up opinions and then yellin' about 'em. 'Live the awakening'. Reaction.

The drink finally slipped down his throat in a swallow.

And what did he think about it?

"Darlin', I got tax dollars goin' to a bunch 'a government acronyms so I don't gotta think about it."

"That's uncharacteristically progressive of you," Ororo chimed in with a faint edge of tease. She brought the oven burner to life with the snap of a spark and set an oiled pan to warm.

"Who better than a bunch of clowns ta take care of a stupid situation?"

And that pretty much shelved the topic, Kitty guessed. At least for the time being.

"Are you hungry, Kitty?" Ororo asked, noticing the girl gathering up her papers to leave.

"I'll grab something in town." The younger teacher scooted towards the door. "Scean and I are heading out right now to pick up the new guy from the airport."

Both looked at her.

"Scean...Scott and Jean," she quickly clarified. "It's-..."

Sigh.

"Ororo, you really need to move me out of Middle School Tech Studies. They make me do bad things, like communicate in hashtags and listen to One Direction. Yesterday, they tricked me into challenging Alison to a lyp sync battle. Alison-Freakin'-Blair!"

And then Kitty Pryde was out the door, her voice drifting back,

"Why would I do that, Ororo? Why!?"

The rain beat a melody, softened to a gentle cadence. There was no thunder. Just the rain and the crack, pop, sizzle of the meat, introduced to the pan. 'Ro worked methodically, meal left to cook while she tended to a small clean up of the spices used for seasoning. Beside her, she felt Logan's presence settle nearby at the sink, where the wild man idly busied himself with the dishes.

There was a hush between them. Simple, shared quiet as they worked, side-by-side. No words needed to address the shared concern over Kitty's findings. The young woman had hit upon something far too dangerous to be allowed indulgence.

 _Leave it, Kitty. Please, leave it alone, child._

Logan had picked up on the cue. He had sufficiently played his part, deflecting and dismissing the matter. There were just too many young minds desperate for Lehnsherr's message of unrestrained indulgence.

Ororo released the breath she did not realize she'd been holding. A glance went Logan's way. Dish in hand, it seemed to be forgotten beneath the spray of faucet water. He was staring across the kitchen, out the rain-streaked window, beyond it to something unseen. That look. Intent. Focused. His natural ease had hardened. The thick corded muscles of his shoulders visibly tensed, a cut of lines in the flesh. Like an old dog's hackles being raised.

She saw his nostrils flare once with a sniff…

"Logan?" She asked softly, the word conveying a wealth of concern. _What is it? Is everything ok?_

The old veteran turned back to the sink. Off the faucet went. The dish he had been holding was set aside. He wiped the soap suds from his hands.

"Be right back."

Outside, out past the wet-slicked grass and the wall of black bars at the property's edge, a lone figure stood. His back straight, feet set shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back; the picture of natural military ease. He stood in full A-class dress blues. The rain had ebbed enough not to need the black umbrella left at the black tinted vehicle behind him.

Logan trudged across the lawn, grumbling and muttering past the lit stogie clenched between his teeth. Puffs of smoke trailed in his wake. Finally, he was at the bars that separated him from the stranger. He set a forearm against the metal, set his fingers upon the old cigar and took a deep drag. A long moment passed between the two. Not a word. The smoke in his lunges went exhaled to the side in a satisfied breath. And then he leaned forward.

"Afternoon, Cap'n."

"Logan," the Captain returned in greeting, his smile sincere but touched with a hint of sadness.

"We need to talk."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

 **lychee - Your words are such an encouragement! Thank you! Great perspective on the kitchen as a setting. I didn't quite know why the muse went that direction, but you are totally spot-on with it being warm and comfortable. Also makes a good place for Logan grumbles ;).**


	3. Chapter 3 - Breathe

**An AU blend of Marvel and Real Life.**

* * *

Disclaimer - All Marvel owned by Disney...All Star Wars owned by Disney...Yep. Mind still blown.

Directions - Read, Review, Repeat; three times daily. ;)

* * *

The world outside was a blur, a manic explosion of life made up of hundreds upon thousands of people. Not individuals. No, somehow personal identity went lost among the collected mass of 'it'. How better to describe what he saw? 'It'. That teeming, reeling, ever pressing thing all around him. It writhed with a countless number of lives on the move. People walking. People driving. People running. Lights and signs everywhere. They assaulted with a sort of mechanical authority. GO. NOW. MOVE MOVE MOVE. Even those lit to entice. LOOK. WANT. TAKE. The visuals were bombarded with spectrums of color like a splash of every kind of paint on steel canvas. And the ceaseless noise. Shouts. Machines. Sirens. Cars horns. Music. All a blaring sort of language. It's language. Though smell was difficult to discern, there was a definite unity in it's wafting scents. Sour, maybe? A sour tinted metallic with just the hint of sweet. A confused smell.

Yes. Confused. Like all it's other aspects. The thing was confused. And ceaseless. There seemed to be no end to the stumbling pace, like a sprinter tripped up at his fastest point. Unable to catch himself. Unable to stop himself. Unwilling to slow the forward momentum.

Because progress whipped at it's back with an unyielding demand for more. Always more. Don't stop. Go. Now. Move move move.

And just a simple pane of glass separated the 'It' of New York from Piotr Rasputin. His forehead eased against the window of the small hatchback as he took in this new alien world with all it's frantic worry. Something in the place made him more sad than anxious, though. Something in that idea of so much lost identity, swallowed by the whole. He guessed most big cities were the same.

His fingertips lighted upon the window, touching at the swift departing sight of the monster.

 _~Piotr?~_...the voice in his head, again.

The young Russian's gaze snapped away to look about him. There was the driver, a man with tinted glasses. He seemed to be glancing through the rearview mirror. The small brown-haired woman seated across from him hastily turned the stare she had been attempting to hide to the back of the driver's headrest. And then she flushed a deep red when she realized she was staring at a headrest. The mousy lady shifted to the side a bit to look out past the driver's shoulder to the road with an air of cool, feigned nonchalance.

But it wasn't her voice in his mind. No. He knew that voice from the airport…

 _~Piotr, are you alright?~_

The beautiful red-haired woman sat in the front passenger side. She had half-turned in her seat to regard him. Warm, emerald-like eyes met his own. Calm, calming eyes. She was smiling softly, reassuringly...the same smile that had eased the giant from his guard, back in the terminal.

The same smile she had used when explaining to the gathered crowd that, 'the guard who tripped and hit his head on the concrete floor was going to be just fine. An ambulance is on its way. No need to worry. Please go on about your business.' They did. Everybody had listened. More than that, everybody had understood and obeyed. She spoke words that somehow reached both ear and mind and made sense to the throng of varying nationalities.

A miracle.

Or rather, a gift, as the woman who had identified herself as, Jean, called it.

 _'Much like your own, Piotr,'_ she had said into his mind.

The sensation of that startling method of communication still dropped the young Russian's heart to his stomach in shock. His breath caught up in his throat.

"Da...yes…iz-…okay," he nodded, eyes darting once again to take in his surroundings and those who called themselves 'friend'. "I am Okay."

Jean nodded, as well. The driver said something quietly and though her smile did not leave, it tempered, somewhat. She said something back to him. He let out a breath, bit at his lower lip, and then turned his attention back to the rear-view. There were more words directed Piotr's way which the young man caught as a question of food. Was he hungry? He glanced Jean's way. Her smile had returned with fullest life. She nodded encouragement, which seemed to be the current default communication between the group: a nod here, a shake of the head, there.

He nodded.

In truth, it had been hours since he last ate. And the scene at the airport, that sudden rush of adrenaline and reaction, it had not helped the situation.

At that confirmation, the vehicle was suddenly washed in the chittering voice of the young woman at his side. Words words words like the spill of water. She was apparently excited about the prospects of food.

The man had settled his gaze back on the road, lips stifling a grin.

Jean did not fight her own. She raised a hand to beg the woman take a breath and the two talked a bit, back and forth. Piotr, meanwhile, was content to settle back down into his seat, head lulling once again to rest against the window...eyes drifted back to the outside a moment where the scenery had changed to a rural expanse of green. There was a tease of comfort in the sight, a touch of old home.

Piotr shut his eyes. A deep, steadying inhale filled his chest.

Old home...

He breathed...

xXIXx

Click...click...click...click...

The roll of the revolver's cylinder played a haunting metronomic melody. It turned over with ease on its axis, locking a chamber into position…

Click.

And then his thumb idly found the cold metal groove between settled bullets and repeated the process.

Click...click…

Over and over, the only sound to fill the old, run-down hunter's cabin, where he'd found the weapon.

Click...click...click…

 _Yes. I can do this. One bullet. And then there will be no more of their yelling and mama's crying. The monster will be gone. Maybe I shall be a hero for killing it? It is funny to think I might be both the monster and the monster slayer. Yes. I can be both. Because they will rejoice at my end and also at my hand in the end. They shall say, 'It is good he did it. Wise not to bring the dirty job upon anyone else. He was a caring soul for handling the problem. Good, Piotr. Good boy.'_

Click.

All of the chambers were loaded. There'd be no game of it. Quick and immediate finality. An end to the story. And maybe that was the most enticing aspect of the current thread of thought. Before that fateful day in the fields, before the tractor had come barreling over the hill towards his unsuspecting sister, before he had thrown himself desperately in its path, before that first moment of metal, Piotr had existed in sweet, simple simplicity. To those he knew and loved as friends and neighbors, he had been little more than 'That Other Rasputin'...'Mikhael's Brother'...'The One Who Should Have Died'.

Make no mistake, Piotr bore no ill will against those who held the opinion. Not even his father. Mikhael's appointment as cosmonaut had been the hope of the entire Ust-Ordynski Collective, a diamond in the mud that might bring recognition to the community. Prosperity by association. Mikhael had been the dream. And none had been more happy to see Mikhael's success than young Piotr.

There was no jealousy. No rivalry. No attention needed...or wanted.

For his own part, Piotr had been content to be 'That Other Rasputin'. The one who did his work well and then disappeared until the next day. Anonymity was the best blessing, because it offered a semblance of peace. He was free from the will of those around him, free to leave life behind. With paper and charcoal in hand and a perfect perch atop the strewn rock at Lake Baikal's edge, Piotr created new life every day. His art, that extension of himself, like added lungs to breath through the struggle, when it came.

A bear, lapping at the lake. Or sometimes it was a hawk, skimming the trees beside him. A line of ants. The clouds reflected in the water. Whatever the day's muse offered, it was an escape into the sight. An escape for the moments, minutes or hours it took to capture on paper.

His art, like lungs. He would suffocate without it.

Click...click…

No air.

His bare chest rose and fell with quickening breaths.

There was no more air. Just the toxicity of all those eyes on him, looking for him. All that attention. They were so angry. Ever since his escape into the woods, they had hunted him like an animal.

 _I am not an animal. I am a monster._

"Netvor…" he murmured.

Monster.

It's what they had yelled at his back as he ran. No doubt, it's what his mother cried when she heard what had happened. It's what children would say of him: the monster in the woods. Never again, 'Mikhael's Brother'. Only now, 'The One Who Should Have Died'.

Click…

The one who should die.

Click…

Tears traced their lines down his cheeks. He raised the gun and set the muzzle to his temple.

 _I can't breathe._

"Piotr…" Her voice.

 _Mama?_

Again. Louder.

"Piotr…"

xXIXx

 _~Wake up, Piotr.~_

His eyes opened wide and fast, every corded muscle of his body shocked into taut readiness against the seat belt; the poor seat belt that strained and creaked beneath the explosion of the massive young man's jolt.

 _~Easy, now. It's just us.~_ The voice again in his head, gently assured. The dark-glasses man, the mouse girl...and Jean. His gaze traveled between them.

 _~We're here,~_ Jean continued in that strange invading language, sitting back so he could catch clear sight of the mansion settled just beyond the entrance gate. _~We were going to stop for food but you seemed exhausted. We wanted to let you sleep.~_

He nodded, distracted by the view. It was like a portrait torn from the pages of an old novel with its antique architecture and acres of emerald. Though Piotr never quite enjoyed reading, he loved listening. And the vision before him inspired memories of his mother's voice as she painted imagery in his mind with the words of her favorite books. That sprawling site before him could very well have been the residence of Anna Pavlovna Scherer. Or maybe it was Count Vronsky's Estates and he'd see Anna Karenina slipping through a side door to be with her lover.

Piotr could almost hear his mother's voice as she described to him what he saw: a rising castle of a mansion with pillars like white sentinels guarding the entryway, it's warmth made up in the life all around it, in the laughter he could see in the children running across the lawn. Strange children; some with strange appearances. He leaned forward, looking with astonishment. Mutant children. Laughing...happy...safe...

A home for them.

The gate buzzed and then opened. The vehicle drifted by a wide run of immaculate lawn on either side and was soon easing up beside a non-descript black car parked at the mansion's entrance.

 _~Ororo, our head administrator, texted to say there is a cooked meal waiting for you in the kitchen. Ribeye with a baked kale side. Does that sound ok?~_

Piotr blinked, reeling back to the immediate.

"Ďakujem." He caught himself and took a stumbling moment to work out the language, "Ehm...iz to say, thank you."

"No thanks needed!" The girl beside him suddenly said, completely oblivious of the mind-conversation and jumping on the most obvious assumption. They were in a vehicle driving from the airport. He must have been talking about the vehicle... "We do the chauffeur thing for all our newbie airport arrivals! It's really not that big a deal." She added quickly, "Not that you're not a big deal! You're very special!" Her eyes went wide. "Like, special like 'everyone is special' special!" The octave in her voice rose, "You are special in your own unique way, just like everyone else, except you are you and that's a big deal because you are BIIIIIIIIG…"

Now everyone's eyes were wide.

"SPECIAL!" Kitty squeaked. "YOU ARE SPECIAL, PIOTR!"

The poor girl's gaze fell to Jean with her trademark 'save me from me' look.

It took a moment, a moment that felt like an eternity as Jean collected her dropped jaw, cleared her throat and then smiled.

"Piotr."

He shifted somewhat nervously in his seat and glanced Jean's way, easing once he saw the sincerity in the woman's eyes...in all of their eyes.

"Welcome to Professor Xavier's School for The Gifted."


	4. Chapter 4 - Machinations

**An AU blend of Marvel and Real Life.**

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Disclaimer - All Marvel owned by Disney...All Star Wars owned by Disney...Yep. Mind still blown.

Directions - Read, Review, Repeat; three times daily. ;)

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The uniformed man stood at the office window, eyes directed down to the courtyard where a small SUV had just pulled up near his government-issued Sedan. A slim gentleman in dark glasses was making the rounds around it, inspecting, investigating the sight. Three others exited the SUV, a towering giant of a youth who looked fresh from a day's work in the fields. He had on a dirty, patched V-neck shirt of a make that looked home-stitched. His pants were the same. A woman with striking red hair in a dress, light coat and high boots hurried from her side of the vehicle to his side and they were speaking. She had his arm. She was smiling something broad and reassuring, a sincerity there that lifted the Captain's own lips as he watched the exchange. He could tell the red-haired woman was speaking encouragement and the young man was slowly responding, first with nods and then his own faint smiles.

And last there was the girl. She was a small thing, maybe a touch above five foot, dressed in jeans, sneakers and a plain t-shirt that hugged her slender frame and bore huge lettering that read, 'T-Rex Hates Pushups'. She stood off to one side while the young man spoke with the red-haired woman, looking unsure of herself, or him, or them, or all of it.

Kitty Pryde...aka I Am Pony, aka #LeroyJenkinsAttorney, aka BowserWifey, etc. etc. Aged twenty. Parents, Carmen and Teresa Pryde. Recent graduate of Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning. Current adjunct faculty, teaching introductory courses in technology. Hobbies included movies, gaming, blogging, fanfiction, and a whole host of other things related to those four items. Internet activity, as provided by S.H.I.E.L.D. Intel, showed a heavy interest in Professor Erik Lehnsherr's work.

One of the files tucked beneath the Captain's arm detailed a hundred other facts about a hundred other mutants as well, a whole wealth of Lehnsherr-related bullet points and cold, hard categorization. She was just one among many, settled neatly into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Class-C Level database...'To Be Watched'. While relatively harmless, himself, Lehnsherr had kicked a hornets nest with his philosophical approach to mutation. 'Live the awakening. Breathe the evolution'. The Captain had read it all in his briefings. Quite the mess of veiled propaganda. It had already stoked some more impressionable youths into action: a warehouse burned in Texas after one kid's explosive experimentation...another teen was in traction after her pixie-like wings had given out on her during a reckless flight across a highway. There was no control. And that was the point. That was Lehnsherr's message, buried beneath layers of pseudo-science and philosophy.

Rise. Be. Indulge.

"Captain Rogers, I am sorry to keep you waiting," the gentle voice bore its apology in tone and words. Steve looked back to meet the eyes of a man who knew well enough how easily minds could be trained up...and influenced. He was a balding man in what must have been his early sixties. He was thin of frame, fragile in body; the evidence of it written in the wheelchair he'd been confined to since his accident. Make no mistake, though, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files ranked that small man a top Alpha Class mutant...the man S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent the Captain to see.

"Professor," Steve replied with a gracious smile and nod of the head in greeting. "No apologies needed. I should have called."

The fact he hadn't called meant much. Volumes were communicated in the intended lapse of protocol. No phone traces. Strictly face-to-face. A top S.H.I.E.L.D. agent playing messenger. Director Fury wanted the Professor's fullest attention. And yet, Steve had the nagging suspicion that Professor Charles Xavier was a man who need not have been bothered by such strategy. Xavier's own cues read just as strong in the way his smile lit his eyes sky blue eyes with sincerest warmth, in the way he wheeled about his office to settle near a chair at the center of the room, rather than beyond his desk, eliminating separation, inviting a transcendence past the muck of formalities. He would have given his fullest attention, no matter the severity of the subject. There was an ease, comfort, openness.

It was welcomed.

Steve, himself, was not a guy who wasted much time with the angles. If layers and subtext had been Fury's aim for the conversation, he should have sent someone like Romanoff, who could have navigated the delicate matter better than he. As it was, Steve sat himself beside the professor, declining a proffered glass of water with a polite shake of the head and a, "Thank you, sir." He handed over one of the folders.

Though Xavier said nothing, his brow quirked upward at the sight of the 'Classified' stamp across the cover.

Steve could guess the elder man probably did not need much leading as he opened the mass of crisp, clear reports and flipped through at a glancing pace. Still, feeling an awkwardness in the gathering silence, the Captain cleared his throat,

"These are just preliminary findings: names associated with Lehnsherr's writings, known abilities, potential threat analyses…"

"Director Fury is making a statement," Xavier supposed, a thumb idly tracing the file's labeled tabs. "This file and your presence, Captain Rogers; I can only infer that the Director either doubts my understanding of the potential gravity, here," he lifted the paperwork to compliment his words, "Or, he is seeking to remind me of it. Why would the Director feel the need to build so emphatic a case?"

Steve's lips thinned to a line. "Context," and then from out of an inside pocket of his uniform, he withdrew a small, sealed envelope, its contents bulging the paper.

The Professor's brows etched with a hesitant concern as he took the envelope and took in the Captain's gaze a moment to weigh that professional look of steeled somberness...the look of bad news.

No.

Not 'bad news'.

Upon opening, photographs tumbled from the envelope out into the Professor's palm.

A nightmare.

Xavier's breath caught. Hardly seen, the faintest hint of a clipped intake. But there it was as he thumbed through the pictures. The hundreds of photographs of a young teenager's lifeless body, twisted, mangled...torn...

The old man's demeanor visibly stiffened. A mutant. No doubt the boy had been a mutant. A severed prehensile tail laid limp next to the body. His ears were pointed. His lifeless pupils were cat-like slits. Written on the bottom of the photo was a date that read, 08/12/15. Last month.

"Kansas," Steve said quietly. "Just outside of Overland Park. In the woods. We found claw marks all over the trees where it happened."

Xavier nodded. There was almost a distracted quality to it and to his words as he murmured, "His nails-"

"Retractable," Steve confirmed, "Forensics called them small talons. Strong enough to dig an inch into the bark and not break."

There were a few moments of silence, save the thin shuffling of pictures. Soon the grotesque images gave way to more clinical snapshots of the area around the body and specifically, the clearing that had served as the young man's resting place. A noticeable circle outlined the space, dug deep into the earth as evidenced by the mounds of dirt rimming the parameters.

"A perfect outline, Professor. We measured. Twenty feet in diameter."

From a shot looking down upon the scene (a tree's vantage), Xavier had no doubts about the shape's precise boundaries. But there was something more…

Xavier skipped a few photos to catch a different angle...another top-down view. The body lay in focus inside the circle, splayed out across a line dug within the shape. Not a line. What was it? Xavier's brows pinched together in concentration as he stared.

"A 'B'," Steve supplied. There was a strange note of question somewhere therein. "The letter, 'B'," he said. "There, in the circle, and carved into the bark of some of the trees."

Xavier's eyes flicked to meet those of the Captain. He did not need to read the younger man's mind.

"I do not know what it could mean, Captain. But if you feel there is a connection between that," The Professor indicated the classified file dedicated to Lehnsherr, "And this..." He shook his head and slid the photos back to Steve, unwilling to give utterance to the horror of it all, "I'm sorry, I have no information that might assist the process. I wish I could be of further help."

"I do think there's a connection," Steve said, slipping the photos back into a pocket. "Director Fury believes there's a connection. Because there's more of this stuff showing up...always the circle, sometimes the bodies, always the letter 'B'. And it started after the book was released. Intel is calling it a movement, some sort of underground campaign bent on living out the Lehnsherr theories."

A pause.

"Professor," the Captain's tone was firm with all seriousness, "We found one of the letters spray painted at an abandoned construction site just outside of Salem Center, last week." He allowed Xavier a moment to process that information before continuing, "No circles." No bodies. Yet.

Steve steeled himself a moment, the reason for the day's diplomatic mission a breath away on the heels of that startling revelation.

"We…" there was care in the words; obvious, respectful care in the way the Captain chose to proceed, "We would like to insert one of our agents into your institute." Anticipating resistance, Steve was quick to add, "Just as temporary cover to investigate the situation."

Surprisingly, there was no resistance. No reaction at all, in fact. Just that thoughtful look. Xavier settled back into his chair, elbows at rest, gaze dipped away from the immediate and lost somewhere in his mind. Steve could not guess, past the sight of the aged man's drifting eyes from one side to the other, as if tracking the arguments. A wise man to think before speaking. And Xavier did. For a long moment.

"I hope you can understand my reluctance, Captain," he finally said at length. "An agent's presence, alone, brings a measure of potential danger to the school."

"I promise you, she's one of our best."

"She?"

"Agent 81. Codename, Rogue. A veteran of the force. She has the best look for the assignment and has been working with our Eastern Division, so there's some familiarity with the area."

Xavier thrummed the elbow-rest with a few stray fingers, those deep blue eyes hardening.

"An Agent already picked and trained," the old Professor mused. "Something tells me the Director has made up my mind for me. Tell me, Captain, what was Fury's next step after I _respectfully_ declined?"

Steve let out a long breath. He brought a hand to his temples and rubbed there. Why couldn't Fury have just sent Romanoff?

"The funding," Xavier prompted. Not a question. He knew. And somehow Steve had the notion that, yet again, no mind-reading had been needed to reach the conclusion.

"The funding," Steve confirmed, not liking the conversation's shift. It was true, the Captain's orders for the day included parameters to 'help Xavier see the need', should the professor raise opposition. And one of those had been, indeed, the reminder of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s investment in the institute. It took a lot to keep the school going, what with basic housing/school needs atop the consistent repairs and maintenance work on the 'control facilities' secretly housed underground. Definitely more money than any one man's inheritance and the few annual contributions gathered by wealthy mutant supporters.

"Beyond that? His next threat?"

"Listen, Professor, I-..."

Xavier raised a hand. "You're a good man, Captain. I know it's difficult business to get stuck between the politics. So, let me spare us both the tedium of drawing out the script your Director prepared and move us to the inevitable conclusion. I have no choice but to comply. I do not doubt Fury's resolve in the matter. Nor do I question how far he will push to see his will carried out."

"Rogue is a good agent," Steve tried to assure. "She will do her job and then be gone before you know it. I promise, sir. All the Director wants are some temporary eyes on the ground. And then she'll be gone."

The tension in the air held taut, harnessed by the professor's unreadable gaze, which fixed on Steve for a long, uncomfortable moment. He may not have had much leverage against the Director, but it was obvious Xavier had a message to send back...

"We will see."

He wheeled away from the Captain, chair propelled to the very same wall of window Steve had settled at for his perusal of the courtyard. It was Xavier's turn to watch. The life blood of the school, a pulsing thing of muted sounds, below. Children laughing, running, playing. There were kids who zipped across the lawn on wind currents. Another popped in and out of sight via teleportation. So much life...given, preserved...jealously guarded.

Director Fury would learn that truth...

"Who should we expect to arrive, and when?" Xavier anticipated that the details had already been worked out for the agent's cover...

Steve rose, made his way to the elder man's desk and set down a plain manilla folder. There was not much to it, save the printed label, which read: Anna Marie Claremont, 17, 4th. Xavier's brows creased at the sight. He drew in a short breath. The file had been created in the exact format Xavier used for his personal files: name, age, grade level.

Another subtle hint by Fury, no doubt:

 _S.H.I.E.L.D. was everywhere. S.H.I.E.L.D. knew everything. Remember, Professor._

"At exactly 5:43 p.m., today, you will receive a call from Anna Marie's 'Aunt Clarie'. She will be distraught over the disappearance of her niece, following a tragic accident involving Anna's absorption powers. She will advise that she discovered your number while searching for 'mutant help' resources on the internet. She will indicate that Anna Marie had often talked about New York and was most likely headed that direction. She will beg for assistance in finding her lost niece...and ask that you help her."

"The Director wouldn't happen to have my responses written out, would he?" Xavier interjected. It was perhaps a tad petulant and Steve did not respond immediately, opting rather to eye the older man, gauging something private.

"My apologies, Captain," he sighed, wheeling 'round to fully engage the younger man's diatribe. This wasn't Steve's fault. He was merely a poor, unfortunate accessory to a much greater, many layered game of will between two incredibly stubborn, idealistic men. A credible accessory - Xavier had to give Fury that much. Having a decent man like the Captain as carrier pigeon successfully breathed an air of restraint into the current that might not have been present, had it been anyone else.

"The Director and I do not always see eye-to-eye when it comes to identifying priorities. Rest assured, I am listening. I will receive the call. And Anna Marie will..." He searched a moment for the words, "have a _temporary_ place, here, at the institute. Just like any other mutant in need of sanctuary."

"Thank you, Professor." Steve extended a hand, which Xavier grasped. "As you probably guessed," he continued, "no students or staff can know about Agent Rogue. I spoke with Logan at the gate, but only to warn about our eyes on Ms. Pryde and her current internet activity regarding the movement. I did not mention anything about the circles or our suspicions about the Lehnsherr connection."

"I'm sure that will be enough to quell any suspicions about our conversation, Captain. As for my other staff," Xavier tapped a fingertip to his temples. "I will ensure her identity remains a secret." Not so difficult a shielding, given that none in the institute would be looking for such a dramatic cover. It wasn't something the professor particularly enjoyed, keeping information from those he trusted most. But the hope was there that this agent would, indeed, be a short-term guest.

Xavier did not have much a choice. Not then. Though the wheels in his mind spun with a new, gritted determination to see such reach never again brought to bear upon his school. Fury was playing too many pieces. He was advancing knights, rooks, his queen, all into this one venture. Noble it may have been. Necessary, perhaps, if he was correct in assuming there was some vast underground mutant conspiracy simmering to life. But his strategy was wrong. It was overbearing and mired in complication. Fury being Fury.

And Xavier was Xavier.

He saw Steve to the door and, again, reassured his participation. Captain Rogers provided a few more brief notes on where they might find the wandering agent, when the time came. They said their goodbyes and then the professor was alone in his office. There was much to consider, much to glean from the day's conversation. Yes, t _he agent would come._ Xavier turned to his desk, opened a drawer and retrieved his cell. _The Director would have his eyes in the Institute._ He dialed a number, set the phone to his ear. _And while he focused elsewhere...the professor would reset their game._ It was time to cut the financial hold S.H.I.E.L.D. had on the Institute.

"Warren," his voice was calm as always, "I believe we are ready to move forward with your ideas for expanding the school's investment portfolio…"


	5. Chapter 5 - Mending

They stood safely behind the wall of metallic glass, the three peering out in amazement at the sight before them. The young man stood encased in metal flesh, a dense block of steel balanced in his palm. He closed his fingers about the thing. The metal screeched in protest at the unnatural pressure. It bent and contorted and then rolled beneath the titanic grip until the square had become a rough sphere. And across from him, behind that wall of glass and whir of beeping, humming machines, they watched in awe-struck silence.

The room Piotr stood in was a simple, box of a space with little to see besides the bundled wires running all about the the corners and along the ceiling...and the inconspicuous silver eagle logo interspersed at various points about the place. Another S.H.I.E.L.D. reminder of its investment in the school. None ever really noticed, though. And especially not that day. Not with the sight of purest, behemoth power so casually at work in the next given task...the next measurement.

A camera from somewhere in the room flashed. It was bright enough to cause a squint. Piotr glanced to find the source as the flashes continued, but they were everywhere.

Scott depressed the button controlling the imaging machine and all light went static, once more. "What do you think, Hank?"

The old, blue-tinted beast of a doctor stared out at the steel ball in Piotr's hand before turning to regard one of the computers that monitored the room's diagnostic sensors. He lifted a clawed finger to push his spectacles an inch further up his jutting snout.

"Think...think think think..." he murmured, drawing a wry, little smirk from Jean as the burly blue Pooh Bear absently tapped at his temples. Hank glanced back, caught Scott's no-nonsense stare settled upon the young Piotr, and then cleared his throat and made a playful show of returned professionalism.

"Yes, well, in the case of our dear Mr. Rasputin, I don't think because I can't think," he replied, choosing words with that odd sort of poetic clarity that had Scott rolling his eyes and Jean leaning closer to hear, "That is to say, there is no basis for the transformation. Our systems cannot read the processes at work."

"Metal, flesh, flesh, metal," he hummed, almost to himself and then the eccentric doctor was down in a seat and propelling himself across the monitoring bay to another jumble of screens.

"Consider the following," claws danced expertly across a few keyboards, the clicking sound nearly blurred to a single note from the speed of typing. The windowed wall in front of Jean and Scott suddenly flickered to electronic life, filling with windows of data. Hank clicked a few more times and one of the windows expanded to show a three-dimensional image of Piotr, caught in stilled life by the room's built-in imaging lenses and split down the middle. One half of the picture showed the young man's body in perfect perspective. The other half detailed the young man's insides...or what should have been his insides.

"I don't understand," Jean murmured, her trained medical eyes intent upon the anomaly of solid nothing that comprised Piotr's internal view. No blood. No organs.

"We are dealing with change at the molecular level. It's the only explanation. Immediate, controlled molecular change." Hank leaned back in his chair, letting out a low whistle of appreciation. "It's beautiful."

"How does he breathe?" Scott asked.

"He doesn't," both doctor and scientist answered in unison, both approaching the matter from their own respective disciplines with a certain, shared excitement.

"Or at least not like we breathe," Jean supplied quickly. She stepped beside Hank and clicked away, zooming in on the image and altering the perspective to capture Piotr's chest, where a heart should have been.

 _~Piotr,~_ her thoughts went out. The young man in the other room jumped a little and had Hank immediately staring at the heart and blood pressure measures. Jean continued, _~It's ok. I'm right here with you.~_

"Anaerobic respiration?" Hank supplied, drawing up lines of code to analyze while the two fell into a sort of natural rhythm. It was a partnership honed over years of close work, together. Indeed, these were some of the minds that injected reason and logic into the concept of the X-gene. These were the minds that gave S.H.I.E.L.D. much of their hard data.

Jean shrugged at the question, distracted, easing into a cycle of tapping screens and scribbling notes. "The room's co2 levels don't give any indication," she muttered.

"I'd like a day of testing-..."

And so it went for the next few hours.

A lifetime to the young Russian who wanted nothing more than to curl up beneath a tree, somewhere far far away from everything and everyone, and set pencil to pad and mind to dreaming. Just too much. The whirring, buzzing, humming, thrumming. The clicks and pops and occasional release of air that sounded like the room was letting out a long, labored breath. There were wires. Piotr had never seen so many wires. Some thick like multi-colored snakes that pulsed with light instead of life. Some were no bigger around than a worm; red and blue worms tangled about his head.

And all bit into him with the oddest suctioning press. Little monsters connecting him to the room, feeding upon him in their secret ways.

 _~Relax, big guy.~_

She was somewhere behind the glass. He looked but could not see more than a few outlines. Miss Jean. Mr. Scott...and another bigger man. A doctor, she had said. It's ok, she had said. Just some preliminary tests and Piotr could get cleaned up and have a nice, hot meal.

 _~How do you feel?~_

The sterile smells burned at his nose, not a breath in that didn't feel somehow infected by clinical tampering. The lights held rigid and cold above him. Everywhere, the mock of man-made things. Things things things.

"Ya khochu sdelat," he responded, an etching of frustration lining his brows as he recalled his current reality. America. English. Mutants. Mind speech.

 _~I want to be done.~_

A pause. Movement behind the glass.

 _~Ok, Piotr. Of course.~_

Her thoughts seemed distracted. He squinted at the shapes beyond his reflection. A smaller of the three with hands raised, gesturing towards him. More silence in the mind. He could feel something, though. The oddest brush of what felt like warmth, the barest fire, in his chest.

 _~Piotr-...I'm sorry we-...~_

He drew in a breath, a calm, steadying intake to fill his lunges and quell the strange sensation inside.

 _~It'll just be another hour or so...we have to process…~_

Anger. That's what it was. Anger burning at his core. But it wasn't his anger. He felt it from her, the pulse of it driving his blood or whatever it was he had inside him during the change.

 _~Is that ok, Piotr? I'm sorry.~_

A nod. Another wash of something not his own...acceptance...

 _~You're doing so well. We have that steak ready for you once we're done. And then we will show you your room and get you some new clothes. Just hang in there, ok?~_

Another nod. So strange. He raised a hand, staring at the metal of his fingers. No feeling to them. Like all of him, no feeling in the metal. Like a shell. That's what it was, because inside he felt everything. The churning sickness of anxiety with him since the day his old self died beneath the tractor. He felt the fear in his stomach. He felt the depths of despair at the loss of everything he loved. He felt anger at God. Why am I? I gave my life. Why could You not take it? Envy. Denial. Shock. Wrath. Petulance.

His gaze trailed back to the outline of her behind the glass. Her fingertips on the pane.

He felt warmth. The lent warmth of encouragement.

 _~You're not alone, Piotr.~_


	6. Chapter 6 - Steps

**Song credit: Zelda Song by Joe Pleiman and The Rabbit Joint.**

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"Link! He come to town!" Feet stomping to the melody. "Come to save! The Princess Zelda!" Up the bleachers and then back down. "Ganon took her away and now the children don't play but they will when Link saves the day!"

Kitty pressed her weighted hands towards the ceiling.

"Hallelujah!"

And then onto a set of bouncing dance-like lunges.

The basement level of the institute echoed with the sounds of Kitty's workout, a space stretched half a mile underground and boasting some of the world's best facilities for training and evaluating mutation. A closed hangar served to contain the more volatile, explosive gifts. Next door, a special ops designed obstacle course spanned the length of a football field. Affectionately referred to as 'The Danger Room', it was a place to test advanced-level powers. Throw in an olympic pool, indoor basketball court, the cutting edge med-lab, the weight room and gymnastics arena and one could easily see the writing on the wall. Outside investments. Many of them literally written on the walls. And the two leading financiers? The towering eagle of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the stamped 'W' of Worthington Industries. Kitty was currently performing her patented Superman Supermans beneath the latter, complete with whooshing sounds and the old 70s John Williams score blaring in her ear-buds.

Stomach to the ground, body bowed slightly upward to achieve proper form. Her fist aimed straight ahead through the skies.

"I'm not a coward, Zod!"

She arched to the side, adjusting her flight direction and engaging the obliques. Eyes squinted against the pretend rush of wind, ears filled with a crescendo, she missed his casual stroll from the showers. And then his confused pause ten feet away. It was not until a pair of dripping feet came into view that Kitty finally realized she was not longer alone in her crazed little universe.

Brows pulled tight together as she stared at those feet. Those huge feet at the end of those massive calves and up and up 'til she was staring, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at his bare torso. Yes. New guy. Beautiful, god-like new guy beaded with water from a fresh shower and sporting nothing but the new pair of silk-like shorts that hung precariously from his hips. He was currently working his thick arms into a loaner shirt from Scott.

Ok.

Commence internal freak-out in 3...2...

"Ehm…" He hesitated, staring down at her. "Si zranený?"

"Huh?" Went her grunt in reply.

He seemed to take a moment to evaluate something, his face a canvas of confusion. And then she remembered she was still sporting her Superman pose and the grimace of a final repetition.

 _Kitty!_...her inner-Kitty screamed… _You look like a constipated penguin in mid-belly slide!...Do something!_

So she did. Hands and feet and forehead all dropped unceremoniously to the mat at the same time with a resounding thud.

 _Sigh._

She laid there. The seconds ticked by. And she just laid there, sprawled out in front of him, sweat-soaked and face buried in the mat...because looking back up was not an option. Why was her life such a sitcom? Any other woman and, no doubt, the moment would've been perfect. All glistening skin and sexy-stretchy dance moves. Chris Isaak crooning somewhere in the background about not wanting to fall in love. Lights dimmed. He'd walk out and stop, transfixed by the sight. A super jump-twirl-spin-thing. Her eyes shut. She'd land like a gazelle. Chest heaving. Hair immaculate. She'd look up into those sky-blue eyes. No words. None needed. Like a scene torn straight from the pages of one of Dr. McCoy's cheap, paperback Harlequin novels.

He cleared his throat.

"Ahoj?"

"Hmmm?" She murmured dreamily into the mat as the fantasy conjured up a timely power outage.

"Hello." The thick accented voice was right beside her. Like _right beside her_.

Blink blink. Her eyes shot open. She looked up to see him inches away on his hands and knees with a look of sincerest concern, the way a kind boy might inspect an injured puppy on the side of the road. The thing about injured puppies and ADHD super geeks, proximity could sometimes be an issue. And it was.

Kitty backpedaled with a yelp, palms slapping the mat as she put a few feet of distance between them. She stood quickly. Arms folded. And then unfolded and then half-folded and then went to her hips.

"You…" Mouth open to say more but Kitty's mind suddenly went blank, her head filled with a tiny background chorus of the young man's vital statistics as he lifted himself from the floor. Six-foot-three inches. Two-hundred pounds of raw, chiseled muscle through the stretch of shirt. Achilles. Apollo. VARIAN WRYNN. A sharp shake of the head.

"Hi. Sorry. You startled me. I was just-..."

 _He doesn't speak English. And you don't have Jean's Jedi mind skills._

A gulp. "Needed to wait for your processing and no classes, today, so I figured I could do my-..."

 _Transcend the language barrier! Do something intelligent!_

Kitty began marching in place.

 _Sigh._

But Piotr was not like most. In fact, Piotr Rasputin was unlike anyone Kitty had ever met because no irritation dulled his eyes. There was no trace of a condescending laugh at the corner of his lips. It could have been that he simply had no clue what she was babbling about, but those bright sky-blue eyes seemed to read something different. The strangest thing. He stood before her, wholly invested in his desire to listen, to understand. He nodded after a glance to the weights beside her, the ones she'd used in her stair steps.

"Yes," she confirmed quickly with her own vigorous nod, "Muscles. I'm doing...muscles." More high knee steps.

 _Brilliant._

He seemed not to take notice of her stuttering tone, or the self-conscious nibbling at her lower lip when she finally halted the awkward demonstration of walking. This was all so far beyond her. Guys weren't typically on the radar unless they were animated and sporting subtitles. Maybe that was it? Maybe it was just a heavy case of foreign fever? She followed his attention, which had drifted past her shoulder to an approaching doctor in a lab coat with clipboard in-hand.

"Piotr," Jean said with a now familiar warmth. Why did she have to talk like that? The tone always so soft and feminine and perfect. Kitty felt an immediate pang of embarrassment at the thought. Mental note: request a class transfer before the middle school girls completed the infection.

"So, we're all done, here. You did great."

Piotr smiled. The first Kitty had seen from him. It was a gentle, slight thing that managed to tug at his eyes. But, wait. When did he learn to understand English? The younger woman caught a short wink from Jean.

"And now I believe it's time for food and a tour. How does that sound?"

Piotr must have been receiving the same message in his mind, which meant the words were for her. And yet, Kitty wasn't so sure, because there was no acknowledgement. His gaze never left the doctor. What was it she saw in them? The smile had gone. He stared and it was something deep...searching…

Jean seemed not to notice, though. His eyes on her but she was buried in the clipboard. Kitty felt somewhat like a child in the moment, a sudden afterthought of the adults in the gym. Maybe she should jump up and down, waving her hands? _Hey, still here, guys._ No need. As quick as it had come, the odd moment passed. Jean finished her writing with the flourish of a signature, handed the whole thing to Kitty and then gave them both her own bright smile, complete with perfect teeth and a twinkle in the eye. Kitty loved Jean. Really. But the curse of so much dang freakin' natural perfection could sometimes be a tad overwhelming for the mere pasty mortals of the world.

"I have some things to finish up in the lab, so I'll let Kitty take over from here."

Of course. She had to go and be an awesome friend. Stupid awesome friend. Kitty was sure to project that out there into mind-speak land. It must have worked because Jean turned quickly, fingertips at her lips to stifle a chuckle before raising them in a parting goodbye.

"Alright, let's go get you fed and tour'd," Kitty said turning back to Piotr who was not listening. His gaze was on the retreating doctor, once again tightened by something unreadable.

Sigh.

"You know she snorts when she laughs, right?...that's the rumor, at least…"

Pause.

"FINE. Maybe it's the rumor I started but c'mon, it's plausible."

Still not listening.

Kitty contemplated rolling up his intake paperwork and whacking him in his gorgeous face to get his focus back on the present. Instead, she quietly went about the work of cleaning up the equipment she had used. What did it matter? Just a juvenile crush-at-first-sight. Nothing real or lasting. The more she thought about it, the more it all felt so silly and contrived. What did she even know about him? Maybe he was a psychopath? Or worse, maybe he chewed with his mouth open? And to think, just a minute ago, she'd been stuttering her way through an attempt to win an ounce of notice. By the time Kitty had stowed her Superman mat in the equipment closet, she was thanking God for delivering her from the mess of feelings. Lesson learned. No more pining over hopeless causes.

 _I am woman, hear me grrr!_

Kitty confidently strolled back to her workout spot to find the various weights racked and a fresh towel folded atop her gym bag. Huh? She looked about the place to spy towering Piotr with her near-empty water bottle at the fountain, filling it. He capped the thing, when finished, and jogged back to her. That same soft smile from before on his lips. He bent down to retrieve and then hand her the towel, shouldered her bag and took the paperwork from her. They stood a moment, Kitty and the giant.

"Hi." She suddenly thrust her hand out in greeting. His brows knit together in the old, familiar territory of confusion.

"My name is Kitty. I'm not good at anything outside of a computer screen. And sometimes I fall through floors. But I'm here for you. All of us. We're here for you."

No mind language needed. His expression softened. He understood. Piotr took her hand in his with a surprising gentleness.

"Katya," he said. That one word to speak the volumes in his eyes. The gratefulness, the lingering apprehension...the glimmer of hope. It was enough to defy the sentiments of before and send her heart fluttering into her throat. She gulped it down.

A nod.

A smile.

"Let's go, big guy."


	7. Chapter 7 - Home

The room was quiet, save for the sounds of shouts and laughter just outside the window. Thin, trailing wisps of it like music, dipping in and out of the background. The most beautiful music. Jean paused, mascara halted at her lashes. She listened. Little voices making their little sounds at the close of a rain-heavy day. Lately, for some reason she found herself seeking it out. The oddest sensation of need to hear those voices at play in their last hour before bed. She took in a slow, easy breath; one of those nearest a contented sigh. And Jean Grey listened to the sounds of those precious children. Pangs of something not quite fathomed speared her chest when the silence of outside eventually came. Like a stop of the ocean waves. It was almost jarring. Expectation robbed by a long, empty nothing. Because the voices were gone, the carefree faded back into rhythm and routine.

Why did it make her feel so sad? Enough to spy the trails of black down her cheeks in the mirror from where the tears had fallen.

Silence.

Always silence.

As if that was truly all there was in life and everything else served as occasional bumps and breaks along the path of emptiness. Or maybe that was just how she felt? Especially in the evenings, after the day was done and the kids stopped playing.

The door opened behind her, causing Jean to jump and catch the arch of her eyebrow with the mascara.

"Hey, babe."

He strolled in, undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt, a pressed cotton grey she had bought him for Christmas because it complimented the tint of his glasses...the same glasses he was carefully replacing with a set of aviators.

That was odd.

"Hello," Jean partly-watched through the mirror as she mostly-concentrated on concealing and removing the black from her cheeks and forehead. Yes. Aviators and a trade of slacks for jeans, which he meticulously laid out on the bed before turning back to their closet for-...

"Are we taking the bike, tonight?" It was one of those questions meant for more than the obvious. And Jean worked very hard to keep the edge out of her tone in the asking of it. He was distracted by a hunt through his institute apparel, the clothing he so often chose when out recruiting for the school.

"What?"

Yep. And there it was.

Jean did not respond. No need. She looked at herself in the mirror, eyes set on the recently applied make-up, the expensive stuff she never had opportunity to use anymore. She looked at the green cowl neck short sleeve. His favorite for the delicious ways it hugged her body. And suddenly she felt very self-conscious. A wave of heat hit her cheeks, neck and ears, flushing them a stark red against her natural porcelain coloring. She didn't look up to see if he saw. Rather, it became Jean's subconscious mission to remove herself from the situation.

But her non-reply had unfortunately been taken as a reply and then filtered and interpreted through 'Scott logic'.

"Oh, the opera...baby, I…"

No no no, she shook her head, waving off the tide of what was to come. No use, of course. A tide was a tide. And Scott's tides were long things affected by too much narrative and too little thought. Because Scott thought and reasoned as he spoke. Usually endurable and even sometimes a testament to how deeply invested he was in their relationship. But it just wasn't something she wanted at the moment.

"I'm sorry. I completely forgot," he groaned.

"Don't worry about it." Wrong words. Wrong words. Because those were words that almost begged a response. She didn't need to read his mind to know. He would interpret the words through a lens of accusation. He would process the tone, short and clipped, like the attack it wasn't. And then would come-...

"Babe, there's nothing I could do." Justification. "The Professor pulled me into the office, again." Jean drew in a breath. She carried herself over to their bathroom to begin scrubbing off the make-up.

"Jean, listen, there's a girl out there somewhere wandering the streets after putting her boyfriend in the ICU with a kiss. That's what the girl's aunt was saying; a kiss that sucked the life out of him."

Jean mustered her best expected empathy voice. "That's awful." And immediate relief in his posture. Bullet dodged.

"Anna Marie Claremont," he continued, "We need to find her."

"You know," her deep breath. "I think I might need to sit this one out."

"What?"

"Yes, I-...it's good tonight didn't work out for our date. I'm not feeling all that well. And this girl needs your help."

"Are you sure?"

"I need to rest."

"Of course, babe. Yes. Of course." His arms suddenly around her, holding her. His lips gently and lovingly caressing her cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispered. And she knew what was next.

Please Scott.

Don't say it...

"I promise we'll make this up, ok?"

Sigh.

"I promise, I'm going to take you out to Gino's, next week." Their official 'make-this-up' restaurant. "We'll drown in pasta and then have that chocolate brownie you like."

And she smiled.

Because ok.

He kissed her once, a lingering one with all the mock of something tainted by gratefulness rather than sincerity. The kiss of 'I'm sorry'. The kiss it seemed they'd been sharing for years. Jean let it be. It was the easiest way to move on to the next part. The squeeze goodbye. And he was gone. Not actually gone, yet, of course. There was still the matter of changing and grooming before the true exit. But in the things that truly mattered, he was gone.

Jean drifted to the closet to give him ample access to their small sink area. She began the slow, methodic work of pulling out her casual clothes, so she could get downstairs to help with bedtime. Her heart dropped at the thought. Trepidation not in the work of the institute's night-time schedule, but rather in meeting the eyes of the women who had agreed to cover for her. Ororo and Kitty and Alison. She would walk down the stairs in her jeans and faded college tee, and everybody would know.

They cancelled again.

But look, she's smiling.

Whew. It's ok, then.

I wonder why they cancelled?

Oh, I heard Scott had important work from the Professor.

What a wonderful pair, always putting others ahead of themselves.

Yes. The Institute's power couple.

Always putting others ahead of each other.

"Love you, babe," he called on the way out.

She didn't answer.

Back against the wall of their closet, her head in her hands.

She couldn't answer through the quiet sobs.

xXIXx

Home.

That word, spoken so often to him the past few hours 'til he had finally asked.

"Home?"

And she had paused in their walk from the kitchen. She had taken his hand meaningfully in both of hers, surprising him with the uncharacteristically confident gesture, and looked him in the eye. Her doe-like brown sought out his own. Meaning. If nothing else, she wanted him to grasp that one word.

"Here," Her smile, so sweet in its purity. Like a child not yet touched by the world. She smiled until it was a grin, taking up her eyes. And she let him go, opening her arms to indicate it all, the hallway, the mansion, the grounds. Kitty pointed at him. "Your home, Piotr."

And he had understood. Because Piotr was no fool. His gaze had lifted to take in the richly ornate dwelling, where the windows sat shut and devoid of air conditioning units, where lights were in abundance and the children were dressed in near-new clothing. A water-proof ceiling. Dirt-free floors. There was food enough for people to throw into the trash or take second helpings. Clean water. No sounds of livestock or the reek of sweat...mud...earth...liquor and fresh bile from where papa had thrown up.

She had led him on a grand tour spanning the better part of the afternoon and well past dinner. A storybook setting. Opulence beyond anything he could have imagined. It bled from the walls in gold-framed artwork or sculpted heads. Acres of pristine land, unused save for the occasional child's burst of energy. The residence halls. The cafeteria. The school and laboratories. Offices. Lounge areas. A library.

It went on and on until Piotr was finally deposited into his new room, a single occupant space with a shared bathroom. And there he sat at the edge of his bed in his 'home' and listened. No creak of mama's old rocking chair. No squeal of the kettle. No hum from Illyana as she sang her burlap baby doll to sleep.

Just the voices, the faded words of the day, the context...

"Welcome home, Piotr…"

"We're so happy you're home..."

"You're going to love your new home!"

"It's the best home for people like us."

Night had begun an early descent, thanks to the thick storm clouds settled overhead. Shadows stretched into the room and Piotr let them. No move for the lamp on the desk or the light switch near the door.

Home…

The darkness came like a sort of welcome, familiar blanket. It stole over him as he leaned forward, rubbing his face through his palms.

" _A chance, Piotr."_

His eyes sealed.

" _Mama says there is a chance for you...a new home..._ " Her voice came to him through a veil of memory. The sweetest, song-like chirp of hope. Always hope.

"Illyana…" Burly shoulders that had borne the weight of plows slumped forward.

 _"Where you are is home."_ His words echoed across time, reverberation from months prior that he could almost hear. _"My Little Snowflake."_

* * *

 **Author's Notes: I so appreciate the encouragement. It really helps to know there are people out there interested in the story. Thank you thank you thank you! Admittedly, this latest chapter was difficult, because it hits some fairly personal themes for me. Nevertheless, I do hope you continue to enjoy!**


	8. Chapter 8 - Syn

**Song credit: Inertia Creeps by Massive Attack.**

 **Disclaimer: Some adult themes present.**

* * *

xXIXx A New Orleans Nightclub, Three Months Ago xXIXx

The thud of the bass. The pop of the snare. Pulsing and rhythmic atmospherics filled the dimly-lit stage.

Recollect me darling raise me to your lips

Two undernourished egos

Four rotating hips

His whisper of a voice led her step.

Hold onto me tightly I'm a sliding scale

Can't endure

Then you can't inhale

She let the red of the floor lights briefly pass over her legs, bared and glistening with a fresh sheen of oil. Flawless ivory in black stilettos. The sea of shadowed faces sat anxious and excited.

Moving up slowly

Inertia keeps

She's moving up slowly

Slowly

Moving up slowly

Somewhere at the back he was watching. Those eerie shaded eyes following her every movement. Or maybe not? Maybe he hadn't come and all the work leading up to that day had been for nothing. _No. Breathe._ She took hold of the pole and pressed against its cool surface. _Breathe_. Her body arched, her silhouette a serpentine temptation in the semi-dark of the club. _He has to be here. Make this work._

A sudden pulse of the beat. A flare of light to reveal The Trick's newest act as she slid languidly down to her haunches. Syn. With hair like the earth, save a stark streak of white, and soft porcelain skin, the young woman looked the teasing antithesis of her stage moniker. But it wasn't a name taken to label the surface. It was a name to taunt the imagination; the mystery of the dark-clad dancer who commanded attention with her piercing jade eyes and powerful grace. Every movement controlled as she eased her body through the undulating rhythms of the routine, as if in water. The house lights were a strobe to the hypnotic pounding of music, a sort of trance-like tribal ambiance. And she used it. She demanded their eyes, controlled the collective heartbeat of the room. All the hungry dogs, panting and salivating for more, begging for it with their cash.

More...more...

Her fingertips upon the bar, trailing it like a lover's caress.

Syn could not have cared less. There was only one dog that held her interest. A rabid animal somewhere out there in the crowd in need of a cage. She looked again, a sweep of the eyes. Nothing. Nothing...and yet...there was a sudden crawl of chill up her spine. A feeling of his stare on her, so unlike the puppets at her feet. A flash of memory. That smile, those lips, the line of cigarette smoke trailing up to the low-pulled brim of a fedora. And his eyes. Blood-red orbs in a sea of black. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck rose at the unbidden recollection.

 _He's here._

Somewhere in the back. Somewhere in the dark. Those eyes like a wild predator watching the meat.

 _He's here._

And it was as if time seemed to slow. The moments lengthened out, capturing the scene in a portrait of carnal decadence. All those bills in the air. Shadowy faces like crazed monsters, lit in lust. And she in the middle of it. Drowning in it. The cacophony of noise dulled to a low hum in her mind until it was just the beat of her heart guiding her hips. Yes. He was there. Syn rose in a lazy twirl up the bar. He was watching her. One hand on the poll, the other drifted with a deliberate hesitance up her stomach to the clasp of her lace bra. She paused. Her gaze leveled on the back of the club.

Nylon burns the bedspread with two

Gravity's zero see me stall

The barest hint of a smile on her painted lips...

I bounce off walls lose my footing and fall

It can be sweet though

Incomplete though

The thin slip of material loosened at her chest.

It's been a long time

Stop.

Darkness. Silence from the stage. As if the club had suddenly shut its eyes and covered its ears. Four beats of agonized tension...

And then the place erupted.

She comes

She comes

I want to X you

The music slammed back in with a flare of red lighting that saw Syn's silhouette on her knees, head thrown back, her body like an instrument to the pound of electronics. And the cash fell like rain.

She comes

I want to X you

She comes

xXIXx

The dressing room was empty. The organized mess of it a welcome respite from the uglier mess out past the dance floor. A month into the job and she still hadn't found that separation from reality promised by the other girls. Oh, don't worry, hun, it'll get easier. Just pretend. Because remember it isn't you up there. She sat, dark-rimmed eyes staring at the woman in the mirror. A faded cotton robe pulled tight to conceal the nakedness from herself. In truth, the woman beneath the persona had no real qualms with the act. 'Syn' was just another job. Nothing special, and yet of all the jobs, her brief time at The Trick had been more trying than she ever could have imagined.

 _Why...?_

Maybe because that was it. It was so brief...there was so little time left. Two years of study, research and near-obsessive work, all culminated in the circumstances of the present. It was almost over. Something hollow filled her chest, the same feeling she had when she played for the crowd. Strange. Apprehensive. Scared.

Scared...

Yes. The look on the woman's face in the mirror. She was scared. Because in a few short minutes, she would find him out on the main floor and everything would change. No more chase. No more games. The red-eyed dog would finally be caught.

"Syn."

She jumped in her seat.

"Come out here a sec."

Jerry's voice. She filled her lunges with a steadying, calming breath, and then let it slowly release. This was it. She rose, fixing the thin sliver of her belt tight around the robe. One last glimpse in the mirror to inspect her facade of sultry ease. Had to play the whole thing out. A small smirk. Perfect. And then to the door.

Jerry Rawlins was the club's manager; a nondescript balding man in his mid-forties with a voice like a car-wreck and a graduate degree in business. He wore his customary button-down and slacks and had the look of a man who might be far more at-home in an office, filing taxes somewhere. As it was, Jerry ran one of the most successful clubs in the New Orleans area.

"Good show, tonight."

She kept the smile and shrugged with a casual nonchalance before drifting to the rows of costumes, the section clearly marked with her name and sporting a collection of gothic, punk-inspired themes.

"There's a guy asking for you. Weird guy with shades and an accent."

She feigned weighted consideration of a particularly tiny leather ensemble.

"You know my policies. I don't let anyone bother you girls, especially between sets. But he's been dropping some serious cash on your name." Jerry pulled a thick roll of bills from a pocket. "This was just to get me back here to talk to you. He'd like a solo in the back."

Her heart skipped a beat. That wasn't right. She was supposed to be the one leading the encounter, making the arrangements.

"No hands, of course," went Jerry's quick misread of the hesitation. "I'll have Lou outside the door." Lou the two-hundred-plus pound bouncer. "I told the gentleman a max of fifteen minutes, so you have time to change for the ensemble number." Jerry laid out the rest of the terms, the standard stuff about percentages, house tips, room costs.

 _Whatever._

She stared straight ahead, processing...adjusting. What did it mean? Did he know? No. He couldn't. She'd been too careful for him to guess at the trap.

"You know," Jerry cleared his throat. "We can arrange this for later. Maybe after we've seen him a few times?"

"I'll go."

He gnawed at the inside of his cheek, uncomfortable but also struggling with the idea of letting go of a high tipper. She flashed him a quick smile of encouragement and then made for the mirror, cue enough to seal the deal. Jerry closed the door.

The robe fell from her shoulders as she drifted through her preparations. A fresh spritz of candy-like perfume. The liberal application of moisturizing lotion. She touched up her make-up and slipped into the barely-there cross-pieces of lace and leather that served as her outfit. Her purse sat a few feet away in her locker. She hesitated. The gun inside called out to her. Something's wrong. Be careful.

But, of course, there was no way to conceal the weapon. Her hands were shaking. That image of the smoke snaking upward, past his devil eyes. She blinked it away to level her own, steeled green eyes upon those in the mirror.

"Trust the plan, Anna," she told herself. "You've worked too hard to build this moment. Trust your work."

xXIXx

The VIP rooms were never all that spacious for obvious reasons. Proximity was part of the price tag. Anna had been back to the room in question multiple times, but that evening conjured up the strangest feelings as she stood at the door, unable to enter. It felt like her first step into the room would be a step straight off a cliff. No going back. Nothing but the freefall into the unknown. Because it was.

Don't go in.

Click. The door opened. She stepped inside.

Smoke. It was the first thing to register. The sharp smell of it burned in her nose. Familiar. Anna could barely see through the haze it made in the black-lit space. The couch. She saw the couch...and then his leg crossed, relaxed, across the other as he lounged deep into the plush material, effectively hiding the rest of him. The chill of before re-doubled, freezing her in-place.

It was him.

Anna felt it like a physical blow, enough to steal her breath away and send her consciousness reeling back in time.

His case open on her desk. The first time she'd seen the file. A murder linked to the underground war raging in New Orleans. The murder to start it all. She had read his seedy story. A Romeo and Juliet romance set in thug-land America between two rival families. LeBeau and Boudreaux. It was going to unite the underworld and potentially set the South on fire. But there was a fight, a death. And suddenly the favored 'prince' of the LeBeaus was on the run. And suddenly the South was on fire, a raging forest of it with no hope for relief until the LeBeau prince was found.

 _So find him, first,_ she'd been told. Colonel Fury had been very specific. _Find him and bring him in, so we can use him._

Cue the beginning of the end of Anna's life. Because the further she dug, the deeper he went until it felt like...like she was drowning in him. It happened gradually. First, the late nights assembling his profile. Then the weekends scouring surveillance videos for his movements. The hundreds of interviewed contacts that either refused to speak or gave only threads of credible information. Every second, every thought went invested into where he was and who he was until he was all around her and also miles away. Because no matter the brilliance at work, he was always one step ahead.

Him.

The man seated not but five feet away.

Her masterpiece of data and analytics come to life. No no no. Her mission. She had lined the night up through countless channels of contacts and leads to finally close the file. It had to end.

"Evenin' p'tite." That easy drawl, deeper than Anna remembered from the studied recordings. A sort of music, the way the tone rose and fell. She found herself leaned back against the door, staring into the shadows where he sat. No way could he guess at her intent, that evening. He couldn't fathom who she was...what she was.

 _Keep it together, Anna.  
_

And the strange war of hesitance and duty found its tipping point in the most basic variable...instinct. Trained instincts.

 _Do your job._

The music began. Speakers set into the walls bled out a voiceless beat, followed by the cadence of smooth electronics. Layers upon layers of sound until every space was filled with the beckoning rhythm. She calmed herself with a deep breath and then used her spot at the door to play the part. Down she slid until she was on all fours, cat-like poise betraying the strength of her lean body. Anna stalked forward. Most men preferred the effect of the angle and lighting. The shadows deepened the curves. A lure to the imagination. But he didn't move. Not a word. Just that occasional puff of ash.

Anna settled an inch away, gaze lifted to meet the barest outline of his frame. He wasn't wearing his hat. She imagined the shoulder-length red locks pulled back in his favored style, a loose tail. No doubt the shades were there. Always there.

 _Take him down._

She spread her fingers wide upon the floor. With the fullest performance of an innocent lover, Anna raised her hand to cautiously run her touch up his pant leg. She bit at her lower lip, head lulled to the side, eyes penetrating the darkness to spot his reaction. Nothing. Her fingertips stopped at his thigh. She drew herself from the ground, leaning on him to lean forward and give ample view of her covered breasts. Tempting. Taunting. Touch me. She willed it. Gliding into a deep arc that set her chest a foot from his eyes. Touch me and watch what happens.

"Anna."

Blink...blink blink...wait...

"Not too close, eh?"

A flash of movement. Before Anna had a moment to register it, gloved hands had her wrists. The world spun and she was suddenly on the couch, arms twisted behind her in a lock, knee at her back and another pressing her mouth into the sick stained material of the cushion. She screamed. A muffled thing unheard over the din of music. She kicked out and struggled, all pretenses lost as her body moved in ways betraying her extensive military training. But there was no getting out of the hold. Suddenly, the fight became less about a counter-maneuver and more about survival. She became frantic in her movement. Wrenching and jerking. One touch was all she needed.

"Anna, stop."

Pop. A flaring pain at the shoulder socket where her arm dislocated. Tears stung her eyes. She screamed again and again and again.

"Agent 81."

His lips were a hiss, right at her ear. She quit moving.

"You listen t'me, now. 'Cause we don' got d' time."

 _How did he know!?_ Her head was spinning. So much. Too much to process. No air.

"You gotta stop diggin', chère. 'S too close and now he know. He gonna hurt you bad."

Her body tensed in the fight and pain and lack of oxygen.

"Tonight will make it go away."

The swirling black of unconsciousness. She gave one last desperate spasm of fight to no avail.

"Please, Anna..."

That whisper...beyond the trauma, his pleading whisper would haunt her memory.

"Stay away."

xXIXx Present Day, Rural New York xXIXx

11:43pm. A young teenage girl stumbled down Onteora Trail, the winding county road that would eventually spill out into West Hurley, New York. A small, quaint community. One of those towns where most people slept late at night. And the local law enforcement kept busy with speed traps and wrestling drunks out of the bars. Easy enough to avoid them. It's why she cut down Van Dale Road when it split from the highway. No cops. They would only complicate things.

She shuffled along, faded Converse sneakers slapping the asphalt with each step forward. The girl was exhausted. It showed in the slump of her shoulders, bare to the semi-chill of the evening. Her pixel plaid woven top and tight, cut-off jeans did little to guard against the weather. Any passer-by might have guessed at the scenario: drunk party girl on her way home. Her arms wrapped tight about her slender frame. Tears streaked her face. The picture of teenage distress.

Headlights appeared in the distance ahead of her. She sniffed...cleared her throat.

A testing whimper. Still too low. The girl quietly hummed a scale to herself, keeping the notes soft until she found the desired pitch. Something high, a bit nasely. Add a touch of angst and there it was...yes...she could pull off sixteen.

The vehicle came to a rolling stop, nearby, and she heard the doors opening.

"Anna?

A sudden flash of memory. Her name on his lips. The smoke on his breath. Like a fist to the gut, it stole her air and tripped her up.

"Anna-Marie Claremont? Don't be afraid. We're here to help. Your aunt contacted us and told us what happened."

Scott Summers. Resident Institute golden child and Professor Xavier's likely successor. Anna had begrudingly covered all staff and students in her assignment briefings. She knew the woman with the white hair who stepped out of the passenger side of the SUB. Ororo Munroe, Institute Administrator. She had a jacket in hand but stood off to the side, reading the tension better than her companion.

"Get away from me!"

Anna screamed and took off at a hobbling run. The game was tedious. Far easier to take the broken, shocked route. But the character had to be played out to perfection. A new young mutant who had accidentaly put her boyfriend in the hospital with a kiss and then run. The circumstances demanded recklessness. Maximum immersion.

It was Anna's specialty and the official reason for her assignment change. It made her insides twist. S.H.I.E.L.D. needed their best on the Salem Center case, before the circles led to the blood and bodies. Condescending bureaucracy. Couldn't just slap her file with a big, fat Mission Failed. Nope. The administration wanted a full cover for the incident at The Trick Nightclub. The target had not only neutralized her but also escaped past the hordes of agents inside and outside the club. It had been one of the worst botched jobs in recent S.H.I.E.L.D. history. So afterward, all her work had gone locked and scrubbed without even the decency of a formal write-up.

Needless to say, Anna's poor Institute rescuers received the brunt of her character's angst. She ran. And then she kicked and screamed when they caught up to her. And then she broke. The tears of frustration and failure a convincing mask to legitimize her cover, because there was nothing false in the emotion. Ororo was motherly and consoling. Scott was the white knight with promises of protection. And Anna-Marie, the girl who had been a woman months ago in a cheap strip house, let her facade play on like a recording. All the right words and actions at the right time until they were in the vehicle driving 'home'.

She wasn't there, though. Gaze set out the window and past it to a dark room where she choked out into a stained cushion.

And his voice. Always his voice.

 _"Please, Anna...stay away."_

 _No._ She clenched her teeth to keep from roaring the word. _NO._

 _I will find you, Remy LeBeau._

 _I will end you._

 _...and then I will close your file._

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 **Author's Notes: It's such a huge inspiration to hear from you guys. Thank you for the follows, faves and reviews! I can promise some pretty cool twists coming up in the story.** **I hope you enjoy!**


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